


stumbled through the long goodbye

by beastepic (arainthatbindshearts)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Breaking Up & Making Up, Getting Back Together, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, MariHilda Wedding In The Background, Meeting Your Ex At A Wedding, Misunderstandings, Post-Break Up, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:14:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22137622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arainthatbindshearts/pseuds/beastepic
Summary: In the time it takes the skillful hands of the hairdresser to pin his hair back into a bun at the crown of his head, kept in place by a careful foundation of hairpins except for the loose lock framing the right side of his face, Lorenz goes through the five stages of whatever meeting-your-ex-at-a-wedding is called and comes back unsure which the worst possibility is: if Claude has brought a date, it means he has effectively moved on like Lorenz had tried and failed to do; if he hasn’t, Lorenz will think too much about second chances and in consequence drink too much, which will not bring about anything wedding-appropriate.-Or, Lorenz and Claude meet again at Hilda and Marianne's wedding, after months without seeing each other.
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 14
Kudos: 204
Collections: Claurenz Week: Winter 2020





	stumbled through the long goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 3 of Claurenz Week - Modern AU
> 
> Title from TSwift's "Come Back, Be Here", because what else am I supposed to listen to when writing a break up au?
> 
> (wanted to let everyone know there's a bit of kissing while one character is drunk and the other is not, but they are in a rship at the time and it's consensual and very short, in case it bothers anyone!)

**_Horsebow Moon_ **

Lorenz looks at the wedding invitation in his hands. It is Hilda in the bold combination of pink glossy paper rimmed in maroon; it is Marianne in the elegant simplicity of the calligraphy. The invitation doesn’t come as a surprise, of course, since Lorenz was the one to recommend the printing company--a trustful, efficient team with whom Gloucester Publishing House collaborates on occasion--still, holding the finished product, checking the date (merely four weeks from today) fills Lorenz with bubbling anticipation. He has poured sweat, blood and tears into the preparations of this wedding: he skipped his strict sugar-free diet to help them choose the perfect cake, dragged Hilda’s brother to the tailor for a new suit worthy of leading his sister down the altar, found dresses to the liking of the two unhelpful bridesmaids, rearranged the seating order to make sure no awkwardness ensued.

He deposits the invitation on his desk, hand smoothing over the flawless surface. The morning stretches ahead of him, meetings to attend and deals to close. He still needs to call the florist, confirm the weather report stays precipitation-free, pick up his suit and book a photographer. 

This wedding is going to be perfect, not a detail out of place, not a thing forgotten. Plenty of time lies ahead, enough to finish crossing off the items of his list--only half of them remain now. He opens his planner and gets to work, pointedly ignores the invitation crossing a border, making its way to Almyra, and from there to the base of the Riegan Worldwide nonprofit, into the mail trolley pushed by the intern at the time, and the desk of the Chief Strategy and Transformation Officer. 

..

Some days later, as he meets with the engaged couple for brunch, only one item remains in his list. 

“You haven’t RVSP’d yet, Lorenz!” Hilda says as she sits across from him. “If you don’t you aren’t getting in, just so you know.” By her side, Marianne giggles. 

Lorenz puts his mimosa down. “How would you know if I RVSP’d or not? I am the one taking care of that,” he says. 

“Hey, Marianne helps you sometimes.” 

“You should help too, Hilda,” Marianne says, but her radiant smile contradicts what should sound as reprobation. 

“There is no need,” Lorenz says. “Almost everyone has answered already, so most of the work is done.” 

“That’s where I like to come in!” Hilda replies, and Lorenz exhales quiet laughter, shaking his head. 

The waiter arrives with their food then, and a moment of expectant silence follows as they let their eyes roam over the quiche, Dagdan waffles, smoked salmon and egg salad and avocado toasts. Lorenz takes his first bite of the latter, the bread a perfect crispness smoothed to the palate by the ripen avocado. He hums as he chews, savors; he’s only had coffee this morning and the food settles his empty stomach. 

Enraptured as he is, he fails to notice the glance Marianne and Hilda exchange, but when he lifts his gaze from the quiche he is slicing, two pairs of inescapable eyes meet him. 

“We were wondering…” Marianne starts. “If you maybe didn’t answer because, well…”

“Do you not have a date for the wedding?” Hilda cuts in, and causes Lorenz to inhale part of his quiche. 

Marianne offers a napkin, tries to pat his back from across the table. Amidst choking and coughing Lorenz thinks it would serve them right if he died and they had to find a last-minute substitute for the speech. 

“We'll take that as a no, then," Marianne says softly, when Lorenz manages to swallow and calm his raw throat with a sip of water. 

"I have been incredibly busy the past few weeks, as you well know," he says. 

"Weren't you seeing Ferdinand's friend?" Hilda asks, pouring syrup on her waffle. 

Ferdinand, bless his heart, had set him up with a friend around two months ago. Randolph worked at his father's clinic as a pediatric surgeon, wore a fashionable suit tight across his broad shoulders, let his blond hair fall artfully over his brow and had his life practically settled. 

He was always on time, surely his apartment not a mess of books littered all over the place that Lorenz would stumble on early in the mornings and find digging vindictive spines in his side when he laid down on the sofa. 

On their third and last date Lorenz had realized the familiar scent had been all along the cologne Claude had used. It had made of the dinner a particularly painful one. 

“I am afraid that did not work out as well as Ferdinand hoped,” he says. He doesn’t add the reason why, they know: they were after all the ones to barge into his penthouse every weekend after Claude left to drag him out to air his head and suffered through his inebriated sorrows. 

But he is not worried: he can find someone to accompany him to the wedding. Every evening for the past week he lies in bed, thumb hovering over a possible companion in his contact list, old friends who wouldn’t mind catching up or the open bar. The thing is--

“Claude hasn’t sent his reply yet, either,” Hilda says, almost nonchalant, almost like she’s talking about the weather. 

“I...noticed.” Organizing the wedding went hand in hand with spending an inordinate amount of time with the future brides. He knows they are going to exchange one of those insufferable glances of which only couples are capable. Before they do, he adds, “Post in Almyra must go slow.” And takes a sip from his glass, he is handling this well. 

“Actually, that’s surprisingly accurate,” Hilda says. “That’s the reason we sent him an email, too.”

“Oh?” 

Hilda hums her assent, deciding this is the best moment to bite into her toast, and chew for a long time, as delicate as she claims to be. Lorenz’s brow pulls into a frown he struggles to smooth over. He may have been waiting to check whether Claude would take a plus one or not to make his decision. He looks to Marianne for answers, but she stuffs a forkful of salad in her mouth. 

“We aren’t telling.” Hilda’s satisfaction glimmers on her face, either from the delicious toast or Lorenz’s now unavoidably pinched eyebrows. “What do you say whenever we tell you to text him, to get in touch?” Lorenz assumes the question to be rhetorical. Maybe if he hadn’t, he wouldn't have had to listen to Hilda’s overtly high-pitched version of himself.  _ “We tried and it didn’t work. We’re fine being friends. I’ve moved on. _ Ad nauseam.”

“That is the simple truth,” says Lorenz. 

“Except it isn’t. You aren’t friends. When was the last time you spoke to each other?” Lorenz opens his mouth. “No, don’t tell me you texted him on his birthday because that does  _ not  _ count.” 

Lorenz closes his mouth. They actually did text on Claude’s birthday, a chat that consisted of a total sum of eight texts, four on Lorenz’s part, four on Claude’s--only fair--perfectly pleasant except for the feeling of having his stomach ground to dust in his belly that persisted for the two following days. 

“So if everything you’ve been saying for the last eight months is true then you don’t care about his date,” she continues. 

“So he has a date.”

Hilda snorts. “Oh, Gloucester.” She clicks her tongue. “You think you can play me with such cheap tricks?” 

“I think we should tell him,” Marianne, a saint chosen by the Goddess, says. 

His triumphant glare is met by Hilda’s steady gaze. She doesn’t waver even as she leans in to whisper something in Marianne's ear. 

“Oh!” Marianne says. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.” 

He narrows his eyes. “I am making very definite changes to your wedding speech as we speak.” 

But Hilda goes back to eating, gestures for the waiter to bring another pitcher of grapefruit juice. Only Marianne returning his gaze with something akin to compassion, finally says, “It’s for your own good,” as she pats his hand on the table.

**_10 months ago_ **

Claude tells him the news with his fingers trailing a path down Lorenz’s spine, their legs tangled under the sheets; still more summer than fall out there, they pool around their waists, the rest of them covered only by sweat and each other. Lorenz presses his nose against Claude's neck. He isn't the one jet-lagged and sore after a twelve-hour flight, but the mere presence of the man by his side lulls him to a soft sopor as the sun projects the last light of the day--warm orange and intimate as it crosses Lorenz's penthouse. 

He has tried to tell Lorenz before, right as he stepped over the threshold. But Claude has spent a week away in Almyra visiting his father and Lorenz has, simply, missed him. Whatever it is they started seven months ago that still feels new and tender, has weakened that part of Lorenz that had wanted for so long and been denied: he has forgotten what it means to long for and not touch, to not have but to crave. 

So when Claude knocks on his door hours before he is supposed to arrive, "Did I surprise you?" Lorenz pulls him inside to press him against the apartment door that slams shut with their combined weight and kisses him; his neck when Claude moves his mouth to speak, "I have something to tell you," but he says it head tilted back and a sigh parting his lips and then barking a laugh high and aimed at the ceiling when Lorenz starts unbuttoning his shirt. 

It is after that Lorenz has to uncurl from Claude's side and lift his head to look into his eyes, bare as the rest of him: his loose limbs stretching on the bed, muscles relaxed; his spent body rolls to face Lorenz, on his side

"My father offered me that job I told you about," he says. 

..

_ We'll make it work  _ and  _ Lots of couples manage to go long-distance with success _ and what are they, if not ambitious? If not the two of them top of their class at college, competing against each other for first place with the intense fixation of the young, useless except in bringing them together, albeit as rivals at first? If not the marketing director of Gloucester Publishing House who saved the company from the outdated clutch of his father and the youngest Chief Strategy and Transformation Officer of the biggest nonprofit in Almyra? 

So they are rational about it. Lorenz drives him to the airport, gathers him close one last time and kisses Claude back. 

They talk every day, allowing the timezone into their lives as the third in the relationship, Lorenz falling into bed with Claude's raspy just-awoken voice wishing him goodnight. Claude's job as Chief of Strategy at his father's nonprofit keeps him on his toes, demanding afternoon after afternoon but weekends as well; weekends he plans to fly out to Derdriu canceled not last minute but late enough that their phone calls revolved around their plans for their reunion, and silence hangs heavy between them as they realize that there's another week to go, except, "They say a tornado is gonna hit the border next week," and "I have a trip to Enbarr for a conference the next one." 

**_Horsebow Moon_ **

He doesn't bring a plus one to the wedding. That’s the one line uncrossed in his planner, the one possible mistake he may have made. The rest, at least, is flawless. Until, the day of the wedding: 

“No, no, no! You have to turn back!” Hilda screeches from the passenger seat, and it takes every nerve in Lorenz’s body not to slam on the brakes right there and then in the process of driving through a roundabout. 

_ “What?” _

“I forgot the ring,” Hilda says, eyes wide and frantic. 

“ _ I  _ have the rings,” says Lorenz. 

“No, not those. The one I made for her! Part of my vows are carved on the inside and--”

Lorenz slams on the brakes. 

..

After an illegal U-turn Lysithea on the backseat will remind him of for eternity and igniting the road rage of no less than five drivers for cutting them off, the car screeches to a halt in front of Hilda’s apartment, half an hour behind schedule. 

He doesn’t need to tell Hilda to hurry. 

Once they are finally on their way again the traffic to leave the city on a sunny Saturday morning takes Lorenz’s mind off plus ones and exes and most of anything except for two things: the GPS informing him nasally that there is a two-hour line holding back traffic at the highway they need to take to get to the venue and Lysithea’s cries every time he accelerates when the traffic light turns yellow. 

“You’re going to kill us!” she rages, kicking his seat. 

Her protests--and whatever Hilda is doing that sounds like praying--fall on deaf ears. Lorenz is not a person who drives precariously, has been refused as a driver countless times for what Claude referred to as fossil-like speed, but they  _ are _ getting to that wedding in time. He forsakes the highway and opts to take the secondary road Raphael, already safely at the venue with Marianne, suggests from the speaker of Lysithea’s phone. And once the wheels are speeding past the old and cracked asphalt Lorenz slacks his intolerable grip on the wheel and returns Lysithea’s glare through the rear-view mirror. 

“We are back on schedule,” he says, and Lysithea rolls her eyes. 

Hilda snorts, cradling the ring against her chest. 

..

But then there is nothing but smooth driving for an hour, and a morning stretching ahead of him free of moving vehicles and people deserving of rude gestures, which means that as he sits in front of a mirror for the stylist they have hired to work his magic nothing stops or circumvents the rising panic and rushing anticipation he had been able to push away in the car. 

In the time it takes the skillful hands of the hairdresser to pin his hair back into a bun at the crown of his head, kept in place by a careful foundation of hairpins except for the loose lock framing the right side of his face, Lorenz goes through the five stages of whatever meeting-your-ex-at-a-wedding is called and comes back unsure which the worst possibility is: if Claude has brought a date, it means he has effectively moved on like Lorenz had tried and failed to do; if he hasn’t, Lorenz will think too much about second chances and in consequence drink too much, which will not bring about anything wedding-appropriate. 

Worst of all: deep down he doesn’t even care about Claude’s possible date. He is seeing Claude after eight months, and inside Lorenz there is a hollow space shaped like him, too stubborn to meld into anyone else or disappear; it remembers the sound of Claude’s laughter and the curve of his smirk; it beats an echo that was once returned, even if only for a fleeting time. Not even when he had found his eyes stuck to Claude for years before realizing Claude had been looking back at him had he ached like this for the briefest glimpse of him. 

Right after he dons his three-piece suit, appreciating in the full-length mirror the cut of the jacket that accents the narrow lines of his waist and the tight pants sheathing his slender legs which, if he may, will turn a few heads, his organizational skills are required again--thank the Goddess--to solve some minor misunderstanding with the catering. He goes downstairs to find a lot of familiar faces already strolling through the beautiful paths around the venue, keeping a polite distance from the gazebo where the ceremony will take place as the staff finishes up the last touches with the flowers. Everyone compliments his efforts, and time passes among idle talk and stories from past days, and soon the guests start sitting and he leaves to find the brides. The simple happiness and excitement of sharing this moment with Hilda and Marianne fills him completely and eradicates any nervousness of his own--trivial in comparison with the union of these two amazing women so close to his heart. 

When he finally sits in his front-row seat, next to a teary-eyed Holst Goneril, the slow music starts and swells inside Lorenz’s chest. The brides look at each other like there is nothing else. 

..

Lorenz does not actively avoid him. He is just too busy patting the corners of his eyes, offering a tissue to Holst and those around him terribly unprepared, redirecting everyone from the gazebo to the open space where the cocktails are being served in the colorful gardens before they enter the dining area. 

Maybe he should have kept an eye on him. 

He does not, so he is talking to Lysithea, admiring her lavender-blue dress and elegantly braided hair--done by the same stylist that had done Lorenz’s--which he hadn’t had a chance to see. “Oh, look!” Lysithea says, her arm curling around his as if he would go so far as to flee. “Cyril found something other than drinks.”

When Lorenz turns to follow her gaze he finds Cyril throwing his head back, laughter shaking his shoulders. He cleans up well, Lorenz has a second to think, before his eyes move to the man by his side. 

**_8 months ago_ **

They don’t see each other for two whole, long months. After a hellish week at work in which they fail yet again to close off a deal with whom is said to be the next Leicester Prize winner, all Lorenz wants to do is go to Claude’s apartment and watch one of his stupid movies. He can’t believe he misses even his apartment, with the perennially empty fridge and hostile parrot that hates Lorenz. Busy weeks are the worst in this way: they don’t talk as much, he can’t remember the last time they video called. What is Claude doing this weekend? Have they not spoken about it or did he forget? Which is worse? 

The icing on the cake comes in the form of his assistant and his obtrusive reminder that today is Acheron’s birthday. Nobody likes Acheron much, so Lorenz doesn’t feel too bad about forgetting, still they have traditions in the company which he thinks help build a favorable atmosphere. And even if his assistant hadn’t already bought the cake, nothing waits for him at home. His friends who light up his dull Friday nights are busy this weekend. For Lysithea this means Cyril has come to visit, for Hilda and Marianne it means each other. Lorenz doesn’t blame them, they call and check on him and invite him every Friday or Saturday to lunch, dinner, the theater, even though he declined for the past two weeks, unable to muster even the least enthusiasm for the Mittelfrank Opera Company that came to perform for the first time in Derdriu. He had heard of the visit of the company shortly after he and Claude started seeing each other, and barely had to put two sentences together to convince him to go with him--Claude was always happy to try new things. Lorenz had gone to the opera countless times and didn’t mind having to sell the tickets, what hurt was losing the opportunity to show one of his preferred plays to Claude who would tease and joke and make Lorenz laugh but also listen to him elaborate on his favorite verses with a smile on his lips. 

After Acheron blows the candles--an unassuming number everybody can tell falls short off the mark--Lorenz eats two pieces of iced chocolate cake. 

..

Five hours and several drinks later--Acheron promised free drinks, his colleagues decided to go to the bar, he ran into Sylvain Gautier from college at said bar, he changed the wine for vodka, fuzziness proceeds, probably something about telling Sylvain of his woes without the least ounce of shame, because they had moved on to tequila by then--he steps out of the elevator and into the hallway, fighting his coat and scarf to rummage through his briefcase for the keys to his apartment. The third and fourth vodka sodas hinder his every move; the tequila shots he lost count of almost causing him to upend the briefcase on the floor and search its contents this way. In the end, no reckless alternative is needed and he closes his fingers around the elusive keys by the time he is two steps from his door.

Every endeavor proves useless: he proceeds to drop them when he raises his eyes, for there sitting in his doorstep a dark figure rests motionless. 

But then the automatic lights kick in and project their unflattering white halo over a dearly missed face, familiar except for the drawn features, exhausted even in sleep. Sleep which rapidly vanishes as he jolts awake at the sound of the keys hitting the floor, unaware of Lorenz struggling to pair him with the man that left two months ago. He blinks against the sudden, too-bright light, grimacing. One hand moves to hover over his bleary eyes. 

“Claude?” He has to say it, hear the name in his own voice, feel his lips settle on the word. It can only be him, but he could be a dream; maybe Lorenz passed out after the cab dropped him off, somewhere inside the apartment complex, possibly in the elevator. He could be a conjuration of his drunken stupor, but he really hopes that isn’t the case, because his liver could expect a short life if vodka managed such a perfect reproduction. 

“I hate the lights in your hallway,” he says, hoarse. It’s the first time Lorenz notices people sound different in person than over the phone. Claude is getting up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and finally, finally, looking at Lorenz. Meeting his gaze. His lips curl, a smile slow in the making but one that wrinkles the corners of his eyes, dimples his right cheek. Lopsided as he says, “Hey, you.” And it's like Lorenz conjured him up, the solid lines of his body made swift as he gets up, the wince of discomfort when he rolls his neck to get rid of a pulled muscle. 

The Gucci briefcase he bought last week, one sleepless night because nobody could stop him and he hadn’t seen his boyfriend in more than a month, hits the floor with a soft thump and then they are holding each other. Steady despite the alcohol, steady for the first time in two months, Lorenz buries the rush of unbelieving breath that leaves him against Claude’s neck, inhales the scent his sheets lost when he washed them. Claude solid in his arms, a hand on the back of his neck, the thumb rubbing slow circles on his skin, he is muttering something low by his ear, except Lorenz cannot hear him because his own mouth is forming words without permission. “You’re here. I can’t believe you’re here.” 

They remain lost in the embrace until the automatic lights turn off, sensing no movement. It causes them to disentangle limb from limb, incredulous laughter bubbling out of them both. By the time it comes back on it matters not: Lorenz’s eyes are closed, his lips parted beneath Claude’s. They remember how to find each other in the dark. He clutches Claude’s jacket in his fists, reluctant to let go, to loosen his grip, until at last the urge to feel his skin moves his hand to slide beneath the collar of his jacket, earning a pleased hum deep in Claude's throat as his thumb traces the line of his jaw. Beard so familiar he could cry prickles the pad of his finger. Except--

“If you cry I’ll cry, come on,” Claude says, his voice trembling, half of it with breathless fondness, as he wipes Lorenz’s cheeks. Lorenz blames the tequila for the unrestrained show of emotion. 

“I’m fine,” he says, taking a deep breath to settle his heart and its pursue to skip out of his chest. “I’m-- I missed you so much.” He raises the hand still tangled in Claude’s lapels to cradle his face. “You’re freezing.” 

“Yes, a bit. Who knew your fancy block didn’t have heating  _ outside  _ the apartments.”

Lorenz gathers Claude's hands in his--his broad palms and lean fingers, shorter than Lorenz's--rubs the rigid cold out of them and brings them to his mouth, pressing his lips against the knuckles. Claude sighs, warm appreciation softening the tired lines of his face. 

He should open the door, get him inside lest he vanishes like a dream, but he can't stop touching him. 

"When did you get here? Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" Lorenz asks. 

A grimace crosses his face."It was supposed to be a surprise. I asked the girls not to make plans with you tonight and you'd said you didn't have anything going on and that you'd stay home so…" he trails off, pulling away from Lorenz to retrieve his duffel bag from the floor. "I tried calling," he adds. 

"My phone ran out of battery," he explains, guilt clogging up his throat like a tumor. "How long have you been here?" 

He checks his watch--one Lorenz bought him for a birthday, before they began dating. 

"About, uh, three hours."

"Goddess. Why didn't you go to Hilda’s? 

Claude shrugs. "So, where were you?" 

"It was Acheron's birthday--Acheron from accounting. He invited us to some drinks, we went to a bar. Do you remember Sylvain Gautier from college? I ran into him…" Lorenz hears his voice ebb away. Claude is not quite looking at him, half-turned to the apartment door, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I'm sorry," he says, not sure what for. Now that thought is needed again his intoxicated brain refuses to cooperate. 

"Not your fault," Claude hurries to say. "I should have guessed something would come up. You never liked staying in on Friday nights." He tries a smile. It comes out haggard, tight.

Lorenz bends down to pick up the keys, his briefcase. "I'll turn on the heating. Do you want a shower or--? You look like you're about to topple over. How much are you sleeping?" 

"I'm fine. There's just a lot of work and long days and I'm still settling in." He gently retrieves the keys from Lorenz to open the door on the first try. "I tried to catch some sleep on the plane." 

**_Horsebow Moon_ **

A part of him can’t help but appreciate that he is the one seeing Claude first: a private glance stolen without his knowledge. Lorenz has a drawer of these inside him, stored for days good or bad; the older memories of the drawer there since the last days of college when he had stopped finding Claude’s bark of laughter grating. He has kept it nailed shut these past months, but the sight of him after so long, the sight of him glowing and happy, lips curling in that proud, knowing way whenever he makes his friends laugh, warrants the effort of breaking it open. The tight lines of misery and exhaustion on his face that had stricken Lorenz the last time they saw each other have vanished. 

He cuts a breathtaking figure in the suit he wears, professionally tailored to match the set of his shoulders and highlighted with an ochre vest and tie; his hair slightly longer than Lorenz remembers but just as carefully disheveled. 

He is glad Lysithea has linked their arms together. 

The joyful conversation they carry reaches like a wave the shore when Claude spots him, and they take their last steps in silence until joining Lysithea and Lorenz. And now he understands why Lysithea is keeping him caged. Looking at him from afar pales in comparison to being seen. 

Shock briefly crosses Claude’s face--eyes widening and darting to Lorenz’s face, staying there for too long--before he replaces it with what isn’t quite his usual smile; it comes close though, sending Lorenz’s heart fluttering against his ribcage. 

“So,  _ ‘Lys is talking to a friend, help me bring them drinks’ _ , huh?” he says to Cyril, dragging his eyes off Lorenz after a beat. 

Cyril smiles, sheepish, and hands Lysithea a flute of champagne. 

“It’s been a long time, Claude,” Lysithea says. Lorenz barely registers her moving away, her arm slipping through his, to thank Cyril with a soft brush of lips before greeting Claude with a hug that he turns tight and solid, lifting her off the ground with one arm, balancing two glasses with his other hand. 

“You too,” Claude says as he lets go, and turns his full attention to Lorenz. That hasn’t changed in the least, still feels like the light of a thousand suns has decided to make of Lorenz its focus. “This is yours, then.” Claude offers him a glass of wine, spread hand cradling the bottom. 

“Thank you.” With no way to accept that doesn’t include touching him, he takes a generous sip as soon as the wine is in his possession. Claude’s hand is warm, slightly dry as they get during the colder months. Lorenz sidesteps the memory of taking Claude’s hands in his to massage them with lotion, slowly spreading the cream for a much longer time than necessary, and is glad that Claude acknowledges him with a nod and does not offer his hand to shake. 

“It’s good to see you,” Claude says at the same time Lorenz manages a rushed, “Almyra appears to be treating you well.” 

Lorenz had thought they would look at each other from afar, he hadn’t planned for any actual conversation--only one in which Claude cornered him in a secluded spot and begged him to go back to Almyra with him and, well, that did not count. He had just watched  _ God’s own country _ and could not be blamed for it. If Lysithea were still by his side he would dig his fingers in her arm to anchor her in place. 

But their friends are not so cruel as to leave. At least not right away. And so Lorenz can take measured sips of his drink as he rediscovers the wonders of small talk and Claude’s irritating eloquence and how seamlessly he leads the conversation and engages on jokes and anecdotes. Lorenz is helplessly pulled in. 

“I did not run any red lights, do not slander me,” he says to Lysithea after she exaggerates their drive to the venue to the point Claude has to wipe tears from his eyes. “It was an  _ emergency _ .”

“You talk as if this is once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing, but remember the time we were late to that fundraiser?” Claude says, breathless, on the verge of more laughter. That had been their first event as a couple, of course Lorenz remembers. Claude had hopped in the shower with him and waylaid his carefully arranged schedule. “I feared for my life, then.” And he looks at Lorenz, offers a private gaze and unrepentant smile that tells Lorenz he knows exactly what lies he is spouting: Claude had abundantly not feared for his life, rolling down the windows of the car as Lorenz floored it, laughing wildly--and trying his best to rearrange Lorenz’s mess of a hair after he’d parked. 

Lorenz could lose himself to that moment. A small, harmless memory shared between them only; there is more in their eyes than in their words. But he can’t let the current drag him any further than he can take. As exhilarating as Claude’s bright eyes on him are, he tears himself away to continue the conversation; continue in this life in which this moment is special because of its rareness. “You cannot keep saying things like this or everybody is going to think I am a recidivist maniac behind the wheel."

Claude shakes his head while laughter ricochets from his lips. “You know, you would cause an international incident in Almyra if you drove during rush hour like you use to. The traffic is so bad I ride a bike to work now.”

“You told me you did that for the environment,” Cyril says.

During one of their last conversations Claude had mentioned he was thinking about buying a bike. Lorenz probably still has saved in his endless list of bookmarks a couple of bicycle online shops that deliver to Almyra. With his glass empty, he has no way to hide the torrent of melancholy a  _ bicycle  _ of all things causes. This hurt is sharper than a warm memory; this Lorenz fears more: Claude’s life full of unknowns now. 

“The environment  _ and  _ my mental health,” Claude says, frowns slightly when Lorenz forces a laugh that thankfully gets buried by Lysithea’s and Cyril’s. 

At that moment, as if sprouting to fill the lull in the conversation, a blond woman appears by Claude’s side. She wears a cobalt-blue pantsuit. Her short hair frames a bare face, the lack of makeup only enhancing her natural and unadulterated beauty; the smooth, unblemished skin. 

Her name is Ingrid, according to Claude’s delighted cry when he sees her. “Where were you?” he says. And with his arm around her shoulders adds, “Here, let me introduce you.”

They have worked together for six months, after she moved from Faerghus and began her internship at the Riegan nonprofit, just having finished law school. She seems down-to-earth and blunt, but sharp and sarcastic, and from what little they speak Lorenz guesses her no-nonsense character must have suffered from Claude’s insouciance. 

But Claude has always liked a challenge. 

And Lorenz has lied to himself shamelessly. He had thought that seeing Claude dating someone would help him move on. Of course he would feel bitter that Claude had forgotten about him when Lorenz couldn’t bring himself to delete their photos from his phone, but in the long run, with Claude working in Almyra and Lorenz in Derdriu, what was the point of letting his heart get its hopes up and think of ridiculous things like second chances? The best thing this encounter could give him was closure, maybe the first steps to rebuilding their friendship, if it ever stopped hurting like this. 

Or so he had thought. 

The reality douses him with freezing water. How can he move on from this wonderful man? He has spent mere minutes with him and would throw everything away if Claude asked. He would bet on them again, for the second time, and the third and fourth if needed. And despite everything he can’t even be jealous: Claude is happy now. If Ingrid brings him that happiness how can Lorenz even wish to change places with her? when he had hurt Claude as badly as he had hurt him? 

His only consolation as they depart to their established seats is that he can return to his life, free of the constant reminder of how much he has lost, just in a few hours; he can go back to pretending he doesn’t feel like something is missing from him, bury his mind in work. 

“Lorenz,” Claude calls as they separate to enter the dining area, and amidst the joyous voices around them Lorenz valiantly pretends not to hear him and lets the crowd carry him along to his seat, far away from Claude’s. And Ingrid’s. 

Lorenz can go back to fooling himself, he has never been able to fool Claude. 

**_8 months ago_ **

Claude kisses him as soon as the door is closed behind them, cradling the back of Lorenz’s head. Even with Claude’s hand on his neck, and his body warm and missed against his chest and the door solid an unbending behind him Lorenz feels like the world is tilting. Claude parts his lips, insistent and desperate, so different from their previous kiss in the hallway, just like Lorenz has imagined them meeting again for the last two months, and now he is too drunk to feel anything past a bouncing cloud in his head. He hadn’t realized he had drunk this much, but then he  _ had  _ kept up with Sylvain and his more than resilient tolerance. 

He blinks when Claude, as sudden as he had started, leans away. 

“Lorenz,” Claude calls. Lorenz has to make the conscious effort of uprooting his head from the wall. Everything stops spinning after a moment. “How drunk are you? Are you alright?” 

Nodding makes everything worse. “Fine,” he says. When he doesn’t hear himself slur he continues. “Come back.” He grabs Claude’s arm to pull him forward. After hesitating, Claude complies, allows for Lorenz’s sloppy kisses without half as much enthusiasm as he had displayed before. His gentle hands on Lorenz’s face, smoothing back his hair or redirecting his head, almost make Lorenz want to cry. When Claude pulls away again--far too soon--there is a little curl to his lips. 

“You need to drink some water,” Claude says, holding Lorenz’s eyes until he agrees. 

Lorenz lets himself be led to the kitchen. When he is sitting on a stool and Claude is closing his fingers around a glass of water he remembers: “You were going to take a shower. Weren’t you cold?” 

“I’m fine,” Claude says, motioning for Lorenz to drink.

“You’re fine? You look dead on your feet. You never tell me anything.” 

Claude’s eyes are narrowed when Lorenz puts the glass down. “Is that what you think?” he asks, voice neutral. Then, shaking his head without clarifying, “Forget it.” Claude considers for a moment, decides to refill the glass and make Lorenz drink again. “Let’s just go to bed.” 

**_Horsebow Moon_ **

He enjoys the delightful menu while sitting around good friends, after washing down with wine and the delicious seafood salad the urge to excuse himself to the restroom in an attempt to gather his thoughts. He knows that tone, Claude wants to tell him something, probably how he hopes they can be friends again and keep in touch and next thing Lorenz will know is that he is inviting him to his wedding with Ingrid. So he refrains from any activity that would allow Claude to find him alone. He cannot face him yet. He will consider it after finishing the salmon and the next glass of wine. 

Between one bite and the next, he finds blissful distraction: Leonie always has a good story to tell, especially since she became a search and rescue officer for the Alliance’s forest service, and she captures those around the table, Lorenz included, with a terrifying tale of missing people and unknown figures amidst the foliage. It is a good thing Lysithea is sitting at another table. 

The brides make the rounds, radiant and bright. When they give Lorenz a thank-you gift for, as they say, 'his abundant and forever-esteemed help', he finds himself shamefully out of tissues due to his previous generosity. He gets revenge with what he had rightfully expected would be a tear-inducing speech. 

And then they are dancing. First the protagonists of the ceremony, who open the dance floor with a beautiful slow waltz that soon turns upbeat and loud, and then most join. Lorenz will get up in a minute, he tells himself. Except that he knows exactly where in the dance floor amidst the crowds Claude is currently making a reluctant Ingrid spin until a tall woman with a curtain of dark hair and a backless dress approaches them. 

He is indeed just about to rise, not trying to piece together who the mystery woman is, when Leonie comes back. He cannot believe he looks so despondent  _ Leonie  _ is offering to dance with him. 

..

Admittedly, he lets his guard down. He blames all that dancing and the nostalgic music from their college days that the band keeps playing which convince him to spend song after song just having fun with his friends, as he hasn't done in a long while because work and distance and responsibilities. 

He dances until his feet hurt, and only when he is standing by the bar ordering a drink do his eyes find, and this time completely on accident, Claude, dancing with Hilda in the middle of the dance floor; he spins her around and she spins him around and they join hands and sway and make each other shake with laughter. 

Lorenz cannot look away. 

There is no jealousy, no pain. Or if there is hurting it is blunter and round, as if the stream of time has softened its edges. He has known them for years and learned so many of their quirks and habits, so much of their minds and hearts. They are his friends and this is a wedding and so he can only stare with a foolishly fond smile. Because the tender spot inside him still gapes, hollow, he allows a longer gaze for Claude and his happiness, his blinding smile. 

Which is when Hilda leans in to say something in Claude's ear and he raises his head, turns, swift, and meets Lorenz's eyes. 

Lorenz snaps around and digs his eyes in the metallic, sticky surface of the bar, heat rushing his face. As his heart races in his chest he convinces himself Claude is not going to approach, Claude is not going to approach. Maybe he didn't see him. The dim lights of the dance floor combined with the sudden multicolored flashes from the big spotlights overhead can hinder even a perfect sight into blurriness. He would leave but he still hasn't been served his drink. What did he order in the first place? 

The bartender, finally, puts a drink in front of him. 

Before he can take it a hand closes around it and steals it away. Lorenz follows with more than reluctance the hand, the wrist, the forearms exposed by the rolled-up sleeves. 

He raises his eyes to find Claude, jacket discarded on the bar next to his elbow, tie undone and collar parted, flushed from dancing. His lips twitch when their eyes meet. 

"I'm parched," he says. "What's this?"

"Gin and tonic," Lorenz says, resisting the urge to put more space between them, and the deeper, more unmanageable wish to pull him closer. 

Claude wrinkles his nose but takes it to his lips all the same, his throat bobbing as he swallows. When he returns it, he does not leave it on the bar but hands it to Lorenz, who has no choice but to remove it from Claude's grip hoping his clenched jaw is subtle enough. 

Leaning in Claude orders his own drink, leaving Lorenz blinking amidst a cloud of his familiar scent. The bartender, slow, prepares the cocktail as Claude drums his fingers on the bar and Lorenz taps his against his glass. 

"Where is Ingrid?" asks Lorenz, to remind himself that there is nothing he can want from Claude other than a tentative friendship, no matter the fact Claude keeps glancing at him without an ounce of subtlety, smirking when Lorenz's eyes find his. At the same time, though, Claude says, "I wanted to talk to you."

The bartender slides a glass into Claude's waiting hands. 

"Ingrid?" Claude says, a line between his eyebrows. "No idea. Dancing with Dorothea, probably." Before Lorenz can ask who on earth Dorothea is, Claude adds, averting his eyes, "Lorenz? I…"

"I know what you are going to say," Lorenz says. 

"You do?" Claude quirks an eyebrow, halfway between amusement and wariness. 

"Yes. And I agree. We had been friends for years before… Before. And you were one of my finest friends. So please do not worry about any--" he makes himself say it, almost willing Claude to spot his lie, as selfish as that would be "--lingering feelings on my part. I am happy if--"  _ if you are happy _ "--as things are. I am happy as things are." 

He waits for Claude's relief. He does not have to deal with Lorenz’s pathetic pining for him, Lorenz has boxed it and put it away for the time being, until he can be alone with his feelings. Claude can tell him about his new life and his new girlfriend without guilt. But Claude keeps his eyes cast down, pinned to the glass he cradles in his hands. He is frozen for a moment, so still Lorenz wonders if he has not heard him or if he has caught on and regrets approaching Lorenz, when he blinks out of his daze, knocks back his drink. 

"That's great," Claude says, voice changed, probably by the fact he just poured whiskey down his throat. He clutches the glass in his hand for a moment longer, on the brink of saying something else. Letting go, he pushes away from the bar and adds, finally looking up, "I'm glad you're happy," and smiles. 

And it is all wrong, because even under the low lights his smile looks wanting and half-hearted and he leaves without saying anything else, straight for the doors leading to the balcony without grabbing his jacket. 

**_8 months ago_ **

They argue the day after, when a blinding headache throws Lorenz awake at some unknown hour of the day, impossible to decipher with the curtains in his room mindfully drawn. It is a familiar scent buried in the pillows that jolts him out of bed. After washing his teeth to remove the taste of fermented sawdust permeating his tongue and the roof of his mouth with which he wakes, he goes into the kitchen to find Claude dressed in an olive shirt, duffel bag on the floor by his boots. He sits on a high stool at the counter, nursing a mug of coffee and talking on the phone. 

Sober, Lorenz can be stricken all over again by the stark lines of utter exhaustion on his face, bathed in the unforgiving light coming through the kitchen windows. 

"Why are you up? And all dressed?" Lorenz asks when Claude hangs up, smoothing his hands over his chest. On the high stool, Claude is the same height as he is. 

"It is past noon," Claude tells him. When Lorenz swallows a curse, he adds, “It’s fine. It’s surprising you’re awake at this hour, considering.”

“Considering?”

Claude’s eyebrows dance above his eyes:  _ considering.  _ Lorenz grimaces. 

"I am sorry for being so drunk. And for falling asleep. I cannot believe I wasted an entire night. I wanted to stay up so with you so badly, and kiss you," Lorenz does so now, a soft peck on Claude's lips, "and introduce you to my new silk sheets." He brushes his lips against Claude's pulse point on his neck. "I missed you so much." Lorenz is unfastening the first button of Claude's shirt when his hands close around Lorenz's to gently pry him away. 

Claude holds his hands in his as he says, "That was my cab on the phone." 

"Your cab? Where are you going?" 

Sober and hangover, it feels like the world is playing a cruel joke on him when Claude tells him he is going back to Almyra, that he has already called a cab, that his plane leaves in two hours--he has a presentation on Monday for which he needs to prepare his team. He got on a twelve-hour flight only to spend a night and less than half a day with Lorenz, and all Lorenz does is say, "Why would you do that?" while through his mind flashes every text that he has sent wishing Claude were here, asking when he is going to have a free weekend, patently  _ needing _ . 

And Lorenz spent what little time they had drunk or asleep. It burns him with shame and anger and heartbreak. 

“I thought  _ some  _ time together was better than none,” Claude says at some point, Lorenz wants to assure him it is, but then Claude continues, “I’m trying to juggle everything as best I can,” as if he is lacking. Claude leans with his hands on the sink, exhales like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. Lorenz wants to go to him and hold him close, but he is shell-shocked still. He has never seen Claude like this. He has wanted this job since they finished college and has worked harder than anyone Lorenz knows for it, he should enjoy it. 

And because the last thing he wants is to drag Claude down, to be the reason for that tight, miserable set of his jaw, to make him feel like he is failing, to steal from him what little free time he has, and cause him to run himself ragged like he is when Lorenz cannot deserve him and his nonexistent reproaches even when Claude comes home to find him pitifully drunk, he tells him to stop, then. Stop trying to juggle everything. Just stop.

Claude scoffs, shocked and incredulous, when he realizes Lorenz doesn’t mean his job. “What?”

Lorenz regrets the words as soon as they leave his lips--he is not brave enough to repeat them--fixes his eyes on the table instead of on Claude. The sound of his heart battering inside his chest and echoing in his eardrums is the only thing he can hear for a long, long time, until Claude’s phone lights up with a notification from his cab driver. 

Silence too, on the backseat of the cab when Lorenz accompanies him to the airport. 

..

The next time Claude comes to Derdriu is work-related. 

He is staying at a hotel and they meet for lunch, trying to find something to talk about that isn’t the last thing they said to each other in person, which they have done their best--an utterly poor job--of ignoring while texting. Claude keeps looking at him and losing the thread of the conversation Lorenz is somehow managing to conduct despite the knot in his throat, despite the pressure in his chest; Claude starts speaking multiple times without finishing his sentences and Lorenz's gaze drifts, seeing the unstoppable path of the sun in the sky, the needles of his watch ticking away the time they have together; Claude, in the end, after searching Lorenz's face for a long moment, says: 

“Maybe you were right. We should stop,” voice forcefully neutral and face withdrawn. 

They don’t see each other after that. 

**_Horsebow Moon_ **

As much as he wants to run in the opposite direction, Lorenz finds his hands gathering Claude's jacket and folding it to drape it over one arm, taking shallow breaths to avoid the rush of memories. It is cold outside, the sun almost gone. This is why he is about to step into the balcony, when from between the ajar doors something other than the chilly breeze of dusk trickles in. 

"Where is your backbone?" A female voice says--Ingrid. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself." She sounds like a football coach--not that Lorenz has ever played football. 

"Can you just go back to your gorgeous girlfriend and your perfect long-distance relationship?" Claude says, failing to give his tone any lightness. 

Ingrid ignores him. "Remember the day we met and you offered to show me around the best bars of the capital and ended up pissed off drunk in the first one, rambling until four about your perfect irreplaceable ex?" A thick silence answers her. "I am, I can't stress this enough,  _ never _ doing that again. Either move on or talk to him."

"I talked--"

"Bullshit. Did you open your mouth and told him how you feel? Did you tell him that you haven't stopped--"

"Eavesdropping is rude," singsongs a cheery voice from behind him. Lorenz turns to find no other than Dorothea Arnault, Hilda's friend and famous Adrestian singer. Long hair in waves down her shoulders; dark. She doesn't need to turn for Lorenz to know what she wears is a backless dress that fits her curves like a second skin. 

He gapes, rudely and embarrassingly. He was the one to put down her name along with her date's. 

Her date. 

"Sweetie, you alright?" Dorothea asks, tilting her head. "Oh! You're Lorenz, aren't you? Hilda and Marianne told everyone how much you've helped. I'm devastated that I had to miss the ceremony, but there was this fundraiser where I had promised to give a concert." She sighs, waving one hand in the air. "But anyway! I arrived just in time to taste the delicious menu and enjoy some dancing. Such a lovely wedding, truly." 

As her voice fills the space between them, Lorenz's eyes dart from the two glasses she is holding to the blue jacket hanging from her shoulders that he last saw worn by Ingrid. 

Hope, rapidly smothered by regret and embarrassment choke him. 

"Ingrid is  _ your  _ date?" he asks when she stops her chatter to drink. 

If Dorothea is surprised about the question or the change of topic, she doesn't show it. "You know Ingrid? Oh, Claude must have introduced her right? They get along surprisingly well, although he gives her sooo many headaches." A tilting chuckle. "But yes, answering your question. We've been together for two years!" She adds, pouting, "Did she not mention me?" 

She very much did  _ not.  _ Lorenz wants to shout it. Why would someone arrive without their date to a wedding? A voice that gratingly mimics Claude’s answers him with something about planes and living in Almyra, and of course Claude would have offered to keep his coworker company at a wedding where she didn't know anybody while her girlfriend came. But why would Claude want to talk to him if not to gently tell him he had successfully moved on? 

Dorothea is looking over his shoulder. "There's my girl!" she coos, offering a glass to the newcomer. She removes the jacket from her shoulders to return it to Ingrid. "You're freezing." 

He should give Claude his jacket back at once, that is something he can focus on. But now Ingrid and Dorothea are standing in his way. The former narrows her eyes when she sees him. "You," Ingrid says, seems to want to continue, but her eyes fall on the jacket Lorenz carries. Her expression softens slightly. "Mmm," she adds, and takes a step to remove herself from his path. 

..

"I will make you work weekends and festive days for a month if you don't return to the dance floor right now," Claude says without turning. 

"Blackmailing interns is a gross abuse of power." Lorenz lacks Claude’s easy humor, could not feel less like joking at the moment, but the sight of Claude, elbows lying on the balustrade and broad shoulders slumped, makes him want to try. Claude’s head snaps straight but he doesn't move further, not until Lorenz is by his side, presenting to him the jacket. 

“You aren’t Ingrid.” He has pulled himself together, his smile now passable.

But he looks to the orange sun, a half-circle on the horizon tinting the clouds red, returning to his previous position without putting on the jacket. Lorenz clicks his tongue, retrieves the jacket from his loose grasp and settles it on his shoulders. “It is cold.” Claude’s pinched smile wavers for a second, the slope of his mouth softening; thick lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. 

They are alone on the balcony, Lorenz does not know for how much longer. “You did not tell me anything,” Lorenz says. “You had something to tell me, and I interrupted you.” 

He knows Claude dislikes being pressed, will draw upon his endless witticisms and blasé quips if the conversation veers to unwanted territory. But he is not mustering any jokes now: He clasps his hands together until the knuckles turn white, he is avoiding Lorenz’s searching eyes. 

“Claude.” 

“You’re going to miss the sunset.” 

_ “Claude.”  _

_ “The sun.”  _ When Lorenz keeps his eyes on him, he takes a deep breath and starts talking. “They say that contamination is going to pollute our skies so much in no more than ten years that soon all those smokes and fumes will cover every inch of the sky and we will be unable to see the sun even when it reaches its highest peak. So, really, how many sunsets can you afford to lose. If you think about it--”

As soon as Lorenz is childishly annoyed into dropping his eyes from Claude’s impassable and stubborn profile to see the clouds and mountains swallow up the last light of the day, Claude ceases his soliloquy; red turns to pink which turns mute and lightless. It is the least heartfelt sunset in the history of sunsets and Lorenz can’t stop thinking about how little he can afford to lose right now, not just sunsets. He turns back to Claude, impatient. He is straightening his spine, dusting off his hands and sliding into his jacket. 

“Well?” says Lorenz. 

“Didn’t you already know what I was going to say?” His little ruse has worked as he intended. In the time it took the sun to sink Claude has pushed down whatever was unsettling him and now Lorenz could fall for the teasing edge of his voice and the nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. If he hadn't known him for years. 

“I think I was mistaken. I think I spoke rashly. And abundantly. I--” He takes a moment to find his voice again. It takes longer under Claude’s inscrutable gaze. “I could not bear to hear those words from you, so I said them instead. I thought you wanted your friend back not… Not who I was when-- Even if I was right, I need to hear you say it. Please, Claude, tell me what you intended to tell me.” 

“What do you want me to say  _ now?" _ Although the words leave his lips ragged and strained, they lack the energy of an outburst; he speaks weary, slowly. It is his body that is coiled with tension. “You’ve told me how happy you are.” Claude takes half a step toward Lorenz, eyes terribly bright. “How selfish could I possibly be?” He scoffs, self-mocking. 

“As selfish as you want.” Lorenz’s voice falters. It is barely audible when he says, “Just this once,” and moves to close the distance between them, to prevent Claude from leaving before he can explain himself. Faced with proximity, Claude’s eyes widen, searching his face. Lorenz has a moment to fear, when Claude inhales an uneven breath, that he will jerk away from him, but instead his hands close on the lapels of Lorenz’s jacket. His gaze lands on Lorenz’s mouth first, and then Claude pulls him down to press their lips together. 

One would think hoping for something to happen, aching for it for months, might lessen the shock of the actual event. Lorenz has replayed in his mind the last time he kissed Claude countless times, has realized during the last eight months, with dawning horror, that he could not remember the exact tilt of Claude’s head as he deepened their kisses or the curve of his bottom lip. At times he would have exchanged almost anything for these memories back, and never would Lorenz have expected a new opportunity to relearn him. 

But in that balcony, Claude tilts his head, and parts his lips, coaxing Lorenz’s mouth open. It is not the practiced ease of a known partner, Claude is unsteady on his feet, surging in too fast to dig his fingers in Lorenz’s hair to guide him forward; it is not the frantic frenzy after months without tasting each other either, Lorenz’s hands are shaking too hard for him to do anything but lay them on Claude’s chest, his warm neck, and assure he will not disappear. 

Claude leans back. Murmurs, “That’s what I wanted to say,” in a cracked voice that pools in the space between them where now only their breaths meet. He swipes his thumb over Lorenz’s wet lips, touch feather-soft. “But there are no  _ lingering feelings  _ on your part, so you don’t have to...” And he is starting to pull away entirely, first his hands, then his body. 

Though Lorenz fails to speak, cannot form words or think past the thundering of his heart in his chest, he manages to stop him. Bending his head, he angles Claude’s face with a hand on his cheek and buries his next words in his mouth.

Claude’s lips part beneath Lorenz’s, responsive and hungry, starved for months as his, until with a confused sound deep in his throat Claude breaks the kiss off again. “What are you doing? You said--” 

“I lied. I lied,” Lorenz repeats. 

Green eyes, dark beneath the twilight, search his face, trying to make sense of him. Claude shakes his head slightly, brushes his lips to Lorenz’s one more time, soft and fleeting. “Why would you lie?” 

So Lorenz closes his eyes, sighs, looks at the horizon when he finally finds the words. 

..

Claude, not unexpectedly, laughs. 

The sight of it brings warmth to Lorenz, not unmixed with, since this time Claude is laughing at  _ Lorenz’s  _ expense, a pang of exasperation. Lorenz leaves him to split his sides on his own and leans his back against the balustrade to sulk.

“I’m sorry,” Claude is saying when he recovers breath. “I swear it’s not funny, but  _ Ingrid.  _ I mean… How could you think that? Please don't ever tell her or she will curse you for putting that image in her head.”

“Whenever you are done mocking my misery,” Lorenz says, rolls his eyes. 

That sobers Claude some, but not completely. "I guess I can relate," he says. "I drove Ingrid crazy on the plane, trying to distract myself from thinking about finding you today with someone." 

"I am not. With anyone." In case it isn't obvious. 

"Yes, I can tell." There is a curve lifting one corner of his lips, teasing and slow and for a long moment. It stays on his mouth, though losing all of its mirth, as he says, "What happened to Ferdinand's wonderful friend?" 

Of course he, somehow, knows. "He kept picking me up on time," Lorenz says, sniffs. "I had to go out with my hair wet twice." Claude does huff out a short laugh, but he averts his eyes, gaze falling to the floor under his feet as he buries his hands in his pockets. One of his shoes taps against the flagstones. Lorenz says, softly, "I could not forget about someone else."

"Can't imagine what that's like," Claude says after clearing his throat; his shoulders relax by a fraction. "How inconvenient."

"Terribly. Jealous?"

For all his insight and intellect which allow Claude to perceive Lorenz as nobody has before, whole and true, and sometimes to know him even better than Lorenz knows himself, Claude means it when he says, head still lowered, "Immensely."

"I am not," Lorenz insists, "with anyone. Never did I wish to be with any other."

Only Claude's eyes lift, meeting Lorenz's gaze, bare. There's a little line between his brows that clears progressively as Lorenz allows him to search more than his face. He isn't aware how much time passes, but then Claude begins to tilt back his head. Lorenz knows that taunting edge of Claude's mouth that is revealed when he cocks his head and says, "I guess I'm not used to having competition," back to being far too full of himself. 

"Excuse me?" Lorenz scoffs. "You have had plenty of competition through the years," he lies, banter familiar like the last eight months didn't happen. "That you failed to notice is another matter entirely." 

"Did I, now?" Claude licks his lips. "You never did, though." There is an exhilarating glint in his eyes when he turns to Lorenz. Since leaning on the balustrade to sulk leaves little option but to watch him approach, unhurried and deliberate, Lorenz stares, helpless to the wave of familiarity and longing. Lorenz keeps his arms firmly crossed over his chest, stopping himself from reaching out, even when Claude steps close enough to touch and says in a low voice, “And to think we could have been doing this hours ago.”

“What unexpectedly moved you to circumspection?” Lorenz asks, losing himself in that lopsided smile. 

Another step. Even though the space between them is negligible at best. Only Lorenz’s arms separate their chests. Claude says, “I wanted to, believe me. Do you have any idea how amazing you look in that suit?” Once, perhaps, he could have listened to Claude’s husky compliments and restrain the flush of heat to his face. Now he is out of practice. Claude’s intent gaze dragging from Lorenz’s eyes to his cheeks, his mouth and to his neck, following the probable blush, feels like a tangible pressure on his skin. “I sat for the whole ceremony with an unobstructed view of the back of your lovely neck, cursing and thanking whoever had the idea to put your hair up.”

He’s been inching, ever so slightly, rising to the tips of his shoes, for Lorenz’s mouth, out of his reach because Lorenz has stood frozen under the onslaught of words, chin tilted back. He knows the moment Claude kisses him his thoughts will escape him again, and he fails to care, because he can feel Claude’s breath ghosting over his chin, their legs pressing together. He moves in, only for Claude to retreat an inch, keeping their lips apart with a heart-stopping, infuriating little smirk. 

With his arms trapped between their chests and the balustrade digging against his back, Lorenz can but glare, tilt his chin up again. 

“I’m jet-lagged,” says Claude. “What’s your excuse for this unbelievable cliché we are committing?”

Claude may be jet-lagged, but his eyes are clear and bright. His mouth curls with a challenge. Lorenz can feel the beat of his heart as his chest presses against him, could feel it when he kissed him for the first time in months, and knows Claude for a liar. They don’t need an excuse for this. 

“Alcohol,” Lorenz lies too. He feels overcome, but not due to anything he has drunk. 

It earns him Claude’s soft laughter, his hands anchoring on Lorenz’s shoulders, but also a careful, appraising look. “Liar,” Claude says after his eyes roam over Lorenz’s face, noticing the keenness of his gaze so unlike the daze of alcohol. The word is pressed to Lorenz’s jaw. “We should be explicit about our feelings. To avoid any more misunderstandings. No?” Claude adds and Lorenz doesn’t have to come up with a reply, which would have surpassed his current capabilities; Claude is leaning in, he brushes his lips against Lorenz’s jaw again, sliding his mouth down his neck, nibbling a path to the sensitive spot beneath Lorenz’s ear. Lorenz shudders, angles his head to offer more skin. Claude’s open-mouthed kisses drag a helpless sound from his throat, loosen his crossed arms to let his hands reencounter the width of Claude’s shoulders, the unbearable heat of the expanse of his back when Lorenz tucks his shirt out of his pants to slid his hands underneath. 

Claude pins him to the balustrade with his weight, mouth sliding over Lorenz’s neck, daring to open his collar and nip at his chest. Lorenz is dizzy under his thorough attention, unable to gather thoughts or muster words. All he can do, when the skin of his neck is tingling, worked under Claude’s tongue and teeth into raw sensitivity, is capture Claude’s lips in his and lick into his mouth. 

He doesn’t know how long they spend like this, unbuttoning shirts and digging fingers into bare skin, only that not even the cold breeze of the evening disallows the heat built between them. If this rare allowance of public indecency surprises Claude, he doesn’t mention it. Not until his hand wanders past the base of Lorenz’s spine beneath the waistband of his pants and Lorenz, unthinking, hums appreciation into their kiss. Lorenz feels teeth on his lips then, and opens his eyes to see him smiling. “This is far,  _ far, _ past the moment you would tell me to stop if we’re in public,” Claude says, because even when his mouth is supposed to be busy he always finds time for talking. 

“Don’t stop.” Lorenz’s voice sounds wrecked to his own ears, to Claude’s too, if his darkening eyes are anything to go by. Lorenz kisses Claude again, grabs his firm ass to demonstrate just how much he doesn't wish to stop, and keeps Claude in place as their bodies continue to brush close together, hips against hips. The sound Claude makes deep in his throat sends shivers down his spine, which duplicate when Claude bites Lorenz's lip and soothes the sting with his tongue. 

They've done this so many times, albeit in less public spaces; it's been so long since they last did. Reality settles in waves, advancing like the needles of a clock that never stops. If only Lorenz could freeze the frame. 

Noticing his distraction, Claude slows down, is unsurprised when Lorenz breaks the silence that has been only marred by their rapid breathing for a long time now. “I’ve missed you.” Lorenz doesn’t know what loosens his tongue to say this, except he has noticed how dark it is around them, the evening well on its way to night, and time’s simple existence is enough to set panic back in motion. 

When Claude smiles, he doesn’t try to hide the sad edge of it. He bumps their noses gently together before resting forehead on forehead until their hearts settle. He buttons Lorenz’s shirt, smooths over his crooked vest and rights his jacket. Lorenz only looks at him, drinks him up; from the jut of his knuckles to the taut muscles of his forearms, the curve of his neck that sinks beneath his collar, the tips of his hair grazing his jaw. And that beard that frames the edge of his jaw; those thick eyelashes shadowing his down-casted eyes as he works on Lorenz’s buttons.

It isn’t until Claude straightens and rises to surround Lorenz with his arms that Lorenz hears, muffled because his face is buried in Claude’s shoulder and his grip is tight and all-consuming, “I missed you too.” 

..

After Lorenz fixes Claude’s clothes and does his best to smooth the soft curls back in place, Claude says without Lorenz needing to assemble the courage to ask, that he is leaving early on Monday morning. The possibility of an entire Sunday together unfolds between them, mirrored in their locked gazes. Claude is holding Lorenz’s hands loosely in his, looking at him, resolute. 

“I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t think things had changed,” Claude continues. “That last time we had lunch I-- I never want to see you hurting like that, especially because of me," he says, threadbare. Before Lorenz can say anything, Claude shakes his head, gives a small smile. "But I’m settled now, rented an apartment where I spend actual time and where you can stay--if you want to, if you want to give me another chance. I’ve gotten used to the job and the hours and a proper sleeping schedule. I have free time, can you believe it?” 

Lorenz chuckles. But it sours in his mouth. "I am sorry I-- I wish I had been by your side. Even if from across a border. You were struggling and instead of supporting you I threw everything in your face."

"You didn't," Claude says. "I wouldn't have gotten through those first two awful months without you." And when Lorenz gives him a disbelieving look, "Not as sanely, believe me. That last time I went to your apartment, it was because I couldn’t stand it anymore, being so far away. It was  _ me  _ that needed what little time I could get with you. But I never told you, did I? I--know I keep a lot of things to myself," he adds, frustrated. 

“I thought you were exhausting yourself for my sake and I could not stand it; it terrified me that I was doing that to you,” Lorenz says. “I… I only wished you to be happy in Almyra with the job of your dreams, as you wanted.”

Raising their joined hands between them, Claude smooths his thumbs across Lorenz's knuckles. "You’re what makes me happiest. I want you to know that, from now on." 

For a long minute, Lorenz closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. There is an argument he used, for long eight months, to reason why they broke up. There is something he should ask Claude. “Do you not think we are too dissimilar? That I do not fit in your new life? There is a great deal of new people around you with who you share so much more--your work, your goals--” 

“Lorenz!” Claude cries as his eyes widen; he uses their joined hands to softly shake Lorenz while he is speechless. Then, "Do you think I would ever chose a life that you wouldn't fit? Forget that, do you think that such a life could even exist? And, not that it matters, but are our goals so different? Have you taken a look at the catalog of Gloucester Publishing House lately? It is the most diverse in Fódlan, and I’m not the one saying it, I’ve heard that so many times. You’ve given voice to countless authors with such different backgrounds that write such diversified stories, to whom almost no other publisher would have ever spared a second glance. Who  _ your father _ would have never allowed to publish under the Gloucester seal. Doesn't that make of the world a better place? Don’t ever think you just stepped into your father’s shoes, you’re the most hard-working person I know. You've changed the literary market almost single-handedly." 

To this last sentence Lorenz rolls his eyes: pure fallacy and exaggeration, but he is too choked up to speak. 

“If you don't believe me just know that I had to listen to my coworkers  _ gush  _ about you and your driven ideas and profuse achievements for weeks after you did that interview with Fódlan's Locket Magazine and you appeared in the cover--and by the way, you looked really fucking hot in it.”

The laugh that leaves Lorenz's throat sounds more like a strangled sob. Lorenz says, blinking the blur in his sight away, “Everything changed so suddenly, I was so frightened of making you unhappy. But I ended up hurting you too.” Claude disentangles one hand to swipe his thumb beneath Lorenz's eyes without needing to say anything, face open in understanding. “I…" Lorenz says, "I do hope I am invited to your apartment, then; I will be looking up flights to Almyra as soon as I have my phone." He cannot be embarrassed about the terrible waver in his voice, with Claude looking at him as he is, his hand tender on Lorenz’s cheek. 

Claude's smile blinds him. "You're invited, as of effective immediately. To my apartment, to my bike, to my fifty-seventh-floor office. Maybe not to my bike. We can take the subway." Lorenz laughs again. 

“I will have busy weekends every once in a while,” Claude continues, earnest, “but not like it was back then. I can keep my word now and come back regularly. I will." 

“I never thought that you did not,” Lorenz tells him softly, leaning into his touch. 

Claude frowns. “I kept canceling," he says. "I missed the Mittelfrank Opera.” 

“They will be back.” This time Lorenz smiles first, waits for Claude to join him. 

And he does. 

“I want to kiss you again,” Claude says after a beat, palm still warm on Lorenz's cheek. “And I don’t want to stop this time.” 

Straightforward and uncomplicated; Lorenz agrees. He'd thought he would never return to the place Claude holds close to him, be it the circle of his arms or his outstretched hand or, simply, the bottomless reflection of his eyes. Lorenz tightens his grasp on the hand he is still holding. “Shall we?” 

He cannot bring himself to pretend. To pretend that they aren’t holding hands or that they do not wish to, that they aren’t going to Claude’s hotel room, lying in wait just nine floors up. Not when Lysithea, tipsier than she normally allows, plants herself on their way, gaping, for once out of words, before Cyril gently pulls her away with a knowing smile; not when Ingrid and Claude exchange some complicated, silent conversation with their eyes. 

Hilda and Marianne are swaying slowly in the now mostly-empty dance floor, lights low and gentle and dresses puffed and fairytale-like. They do not pull them away from their embrace. 

..

Claude’s room reveals, once Claude swipes his card to open the door with swifter fingers Lorenz could have managed under the circumstances--which involve Claude thoroughly kissing him in an elevator and propping his thigh between Lorenz's legs until the doors opened on the ninth floor--a queen-sized bed, on it his scarce luggage, bag open and contents spilling out of it, and the clothes he wore for the flight strewn and wrinkled. Claude pushes everything to the floor when he removes the bedspread to display the white sheets onto which Lorenz pushes him. 

The room is nothing Lorenz does not expect and despite the luxury of the hotel, all in all a very unexceptional room. 

Except that Claude is in it. Claude and his hands dragging him to lie on top of him, his quick fingers working on the buttons he had just fastened a moment ago. He kisses Lorenz's wrists when he removes his cufflinks, and it is not long before they have found their previous rhythm from the balcony. 

The golden gleam of the bedside lamp paints Claude's skin with a warm glow, the plains of the chest and abdomen Lorenz remembers. As does his hands and lips remember where to move to hear Claude shaping Lorenz's name in his mouth, breathless: his neck that Lorenz tastes until he feels Claude's pulse skyrocket against his lips; the trail of hair under his navel to which Lorenz presses his face for a long teasing moment while he unfastens his belt; the inside of his thighs where Lorenz delivers open-mouthed kisses that make Claude tighten his clutch on the sheets. 

"When did you turn into a whirlwind?" Claude manages, body pushing toward Lorenz despite his words.

"It's been eight months," Lorenz says against Claude's hip. "But I will prevaricate if you wish." This, dragging his mouth closer to where Claude wants him, impatient to taste him again, to feel the weight of him on his tongue. 

Claude shudders, bares the line of his throat as he aims a laugh waylaid by a groan at the ceiling. "Fuck. Don't. But it's been so long and if you keep this up I'm not going to-- Ah--"

The length of him on his tongue, heavy and roused, leads to Claude's convulsive grip on his hair, where the pins still do their best to keep the elaborate hairstyle in place. Lorenz hums around him, doing what he knows will quicken Claude's breath, while his muscles twitch and his voice comes out low and hoarse. Lorenz ignores the heat pumping through his veins in lieu of focusing on Claude, even when the sight of him stretched out on the bed for Lorenz alone to see, all broad chest and taut muscles contained in flushed skin, sends an irrepressible shiver down Lorenz's spine that pools deep inside him with a dizzying wave. But Claude's unrestrained voice, his unsteady breaths--which appear sooner than Lorenz remembers was usual, Claude oversensitive and long-neglected in his mouth and beneath his wandering hands--don't stop Lorenz; he clasps firm hands on his backside to drive him forward and work his mouth around him, relentless, until he is swallowing and Claude is throwing his head back, legs tangled around Lorenz's back tensing until his body goes lax. 

Claude gathers Lorenz in his arms while he is practically trembling with coiled, still-fettered pleasure, on the brink just from giving Claude release. Pulling Lorenz into his lap, Claude bares him completely, until nothing but skin presses on skin, endless and vast. 

"Touch me," Lorenz pleads, unchecked, and Claude stops regarding him and wraps a knowing hand around him, anchors Lorenz to him with a kiss deep and slow, and coaxes unnameable sounds from him until all it takes are three taut tugs, deliberate and purposeful, and Claude’s murmured stream of half-slurred words and he is gasping and spilling in Claude’s skilful hand.

..

"Are you comfortable?" Claude's chest vibrates beneath Lorenz's head as he speaks. 

Lorenz gives a hum as answer, busy trailing a path over the warm skin of his ribs and shoulders; focused on the tickling downpour of Claude's fingers on his neck and back, over his thighs. 

They had folded around each other like this after Lorenz came and, boneless, followed Claude as he leaned back on the piled up pillows. The automatic heating of the room covers Lorenz's back, turning avoidable the ineffable effort of reaching back for the sheets. 

"Am I crushing you?" Lorenz asks after a while, because he is still sitting on Claude's lap, unwilling to lift himself from his chest. 

"You're perfect where you are," Claude says. The lazy path of his wandering, placid hands belies his wakefulness; voice relaxed yet incitingly conscious. Lorenz smiles, noticing other signs of Claude's stirring diligence beneath him--the night is far from over. "Actually…" 

Moving only to question him with his eyes, Lorenz cocks his head. Claude grins, seizes the opportunity and loops the lock of Lorenz's hair that frames one side of his face around his index finger. 

"Can I?" His other hand tugs at the back of Lorenz's head where his hair is coiled and pinned. 

Lorenz straightens until they are face to face. "Must you?" he says. "My hair will get everywhere." But even as he says the words he complies, guides Claude's hands to where the hairpins are buried. As Claude makes quick work of the hairstyle, with only minimal tugging, Lorenz finds himself glad to have complied, the mesmerized look on Claude's face as strand after strand cascades down Lorenz's shoulders a sight Lorenz had thought would never be allowed to him ever again: inescapable and unguarded, like by removing the hairpins Claude is wrenching something loose within himself. Lorenz knows the feeling; Claude's hands buried in his hair, fingertips gentle and soothing on his scalp--it jolts something no longer painful into awareness: a definite, finite, done, number of days and nights on a bed, in a room, with each other. 

Until now. 

Claude looks at the glinting hairpins in his hand for some time, in silence. Lorenz can only guess his thoughts, but knows how regret looks on that dear face--regret about something inevitable which they cannot go back in time to undo; Lorenz will not allow it to take up any more of their time together. He puts a finger under Claude's chin to tip his head back and work his mouth open until he hears the sound of the hairpins being put away on the bedside table, and both of Claude's hands return to his skin. 

It isn't over.

..

It becomes clear one of the reasons Claude wanted his hair down was to twist it around his hand and  _ pull _ and swallow up with a wolfish grin the noise Lorenz, writhing in his lap, makes when this happens. 

“I missed your fingers,” Lorenz breaths against the shell of Claude’s ear, clutching his shoulders at the full-body shudder than runs through him while Lorenz pushes back on those fingers deep inside him. 

“Do you know what I missed?” asks Claude. 

He pushes Lorenz's back on the pillows, kneels between his parted legs and lifts one to his shoulder. He plants his lips on Lorenz’s ankle, slides his mouth up, and up; with fingers digging into his calf and Claude’s wet mouth tireless on his skin, with his voice, low, murmuring against his thigh, “I could lose a whole day to your legs. They’re endless, Lorenz.  _ Endless.  _ You’re so beautiful,” Lorenz feels tears prickling his eyes from the sheer pleasure and familiarity. The former skyrocketing when Claude reaches the juncture of his hip, his length, and his fingers, coated with a fresh layer of lube, return to work Lorenz open. 

Claude unwinds him: unretractable but no longer dooming, the last eight months will stay with Lorenz, always; but so will, if Lorenz has a say in the matter, Claude. 

When Claude rises to his knees and lifts his eyes to look at Lorenz from between his legs, reaching a hand to lace their fingers together, he seems to wordlessly agree. 

That is how Claude finally breeches him, with Lorenz’s legs wrapped around him, pressing him closer, and closer. He takes his time, muscles corded tight on his back as he pushes in so slow Lorenz can feel every inch. 

"Claude," Lorenz breathes, digging his fingers in his back. He tries his best to sound convincing, like what Claude is doing isn't setting every nerve ending aflame, unearthing the root of everything Lorenz has ever felt. " _ Move _ ."

"I am moving," Claude says, punctuating the last word with another unhurried thrust. 

"You could--" He has to cover his mouth with his hand, words breaking before they leave his lips. 

Claude takes Lorenz's hand away. "I could what?" he says, pressing a kiss to his knuckles before tangling their fingers next to Lorenz's head. 

Heat suffuses every inch of his skin as he looks at the insufferable man above him; perspiration mats strands of hair to Claude's temples and forehead, pools in the hollow of his throat. Lorenz could plausibly switch their positions and take what he wishes, but Claude is a solid weight above him, pressing his lips to Lorenz's, to his jaw and chin, and neck, and what Lorenz wants is to feel the deliberate strength of his thrusts burying him deeper inside. 

It is this Lorenz gets when he tightens around Claude, heels shoving him close, and as Claude’s eyes flutter closed, smirk giving way to a soft sound of almost-surprise deep in his throat, Claude's hips jerk once, twice, quick and hard and thought-erasing, right how Lorenz wants him.

"Like that," Lorenz says when his breath is his to command again. 

Claude laughs, now finding a rhythm faster than before--"You had only to ask,” he says, and anchoring one hand on the headboard he circles Lorenz's lower back with his arm to bring their bodies flushed together, canting his hips as Lorenz is coiled around a single sensation deep inside him, undistilled want taking over as they effortlessly find and cosset the other's pleasure--until they have drawn from each other something sorely missed for the last eight months, now granted to them once again.

..

They are awake--though barely--when the sun rises, awake and bone-deep exhausted after trying to satisfy an eight-month deprivation in one night; as it filters through the drawn curtains weakly, sleep traps Lorenz, drags him into slumber while he rests his head on Claude's chest that rises and falls in lulling rhythm. 

..

..

Claude stays conscious a moment longer, and only to press his lips to the top of Lorenz's head and take a deep breath. 

The smile, too, he buries in Lorenz's hair, before joining him in sleep. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! Hope you enjoyed~~


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